In that instant the word was spoken, the air distorted violently around the church, as if an unseen force had been pressed upon their heads, as if weights of entire worlds had descended all at once. The space itself groaned under the pressure. Light bent unnaturally. Sound became muffled and then sharp again, like reality struggling to remember its own rules.
The church members roared in fervent unison and began to chant, their voices overlapping into something no longer human. The prayer was not one of mercy or salvation, but of invocation. From places no mortal should ever know of, and no mortal should ever dare to speak about, weapons answered their call. Black, jagged armaments emerged one by one into their grasp, dragged forth from invisible depths. Each weapon reflected not light, but absence, as though fragments of darkness itself had been hammered into shape.
The guards, however, did not pause. They did not hesitate. They continued the execution as if nothing had changed.
They raised their swords, wide and merciless, the edges gleaming with a cold clarity. As the blades rose, the air rippled faintly, disturbed by intent alone. Then, without another breath being drawn, the swords fell. They descended with reverence, cutting through the air in a flawless arc, a slash so precise it felt as though it could divide even atoms.
The speed defied mortal comprehension.
SLASH.
The sound of impact echoed from every corner of the church. A wet, final sound. Blood splattered outward, thick crimson flooding the stone beneath. It streamed from the body of the once lively woman, a woman who had possessed nothing in this world except her child. Her head fell to the ground with dreadful gravity, the dull thud of it striking stone forcing every gaze to turn, if only for a split second.
The child screamed.
It was not a cry of pain, but of annihilation, as though his entire world had been severed alongside her neck. His voice tore through the hall, raw and unbearable.
To the church members, the sight was a source of fervor, a confirmation of faith. Their chants grew louder, more frenzied. To the guards, it was duty fulfilled, devotion enacted without question. To Aeron, it was merely a sacrifice that would have been offered sooner or later, another necessary step along a path he had already justified.
To Lucien, it was worse than the massacre before. More hollow. More unforgivable.
Veldra watched.
He did not flinch. He did not turn away. His gaze lingered on the fallen woman with something unreadable stirring in his eyes. Suspicion, perhaps. Guilt. A strange, quiet pity for a fate that had been sealed long before this moment. For an instant, it almost seemed as though he mourned her.
But that feeling passed.
He deemed it inevitable. Something that had been bound to occur. Fate itself had already carved this outcome into its records, and who among mortals could truly stand against fate. Who would dare to reach into its script and rewrite what had already been decided.
Then another slash occurred.
The second woman's head fell more quietly, almost gently, as if even death had softened its grip upon her. It rolled across the floor like a cobbled stone, turning and turning until it came to a stop at Veldra's feet, leaving behind a wavering trail of blood that stained the red carpet in uneven arcs. The head rolled like a cast die, its final face revealed with cruel clarity, vivid as a revelation forced upon the living.
Her eyes were closed.Not in fear.Not in denial.
They carried the stillness of one who had already accepted fate. Her mouth was closed as well, sealed without a scream, without protest. Black hair clung to her face, soaked and heavy with deep crimson, while her neck looked as though it had been torn free by something wrathful and impatient, uprooted rather than severed.
Veldra kicked the head aside.
The motion was casual, unburdened, as if brushing away debris. The death of an innocent did not trouble him. It did not even register as something worthy of question. To him, death was always the destination. It could be delayed, stretched thin, disguised as mercy or time, but it would arrive all the same, exactly when fate decided. Nothing more. Nothing less.
This time, the child did not scream.
After all, it was not even his mother.
He felt loneliness settle into his chest, cold and hollow, knowing he was now the only one left. Yet there was no overwhelming grief, only a quiet understanding. He knew he would soon join her. He could only hope she had gone to heaven. Otherwise, he wondered if he might abandon heaven altogether just to follow her into hell, though even that thought felt distant, unreal, like something that no longer mattered.
The guard turned toward the child.
As the sword was about to fall, Aeron raised his hand.
"Leave him," Aeron commanded.
The blade halted in mid motion.
The guard hesitated, then stepped back, returning to his position, leaving the child standing alone in confusion, surrounded by blood, bodies, and chanting zealots.
"What!" the child shouted suddenly. "Kill me. Kill me, I say. I do not want to live anymore. Kill me, you stupid bitch!"
His words were cut short.
A swift kick struck his mouth, the force snapping his head sideways and sending his small body flying into one of the church members. He crashed against armour and stone.
"Coughh!"
The child gasped violently for air, clutching his chest as though his heart might burst free, each breath sharp and broken.
Kill all of them.
The voice echoed inside Veldra's mind.
It did not ask.It did not persuade.
It stated.
Veldra froze.
The words tunneled into him, stripping away hesitation, leaving him stunned once more. Yet this time, he did not sink into confusion. He did not question the origin of the voice. He did not analyze it, fear it, or resist it.
He accepted it.
And he obeyed.
A smile slowly spread across his face.
At that exact moment, the church members lunged.